


Forty Two Firsts

by Whreflections



Series: Soulmates OT7 verse [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Multi, OT7, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Disclaimer- there will probably be more than forty two, but I liked the title)<br/>(Second disclaimer- these will make far more sense if you have read the introduction to/other fics in this verse)</p><p>A collection of firsts taking place in my OT7 soulmates AU verse.  These firsts could be just about any kind of relationship first, though they will likely center around first kisses, first times, etc.  They won't be in chronological order or basically in any kind of order at all; as I feel like writing them, they'll just show up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forty Two Firsts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AwesomeTeaPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeTeaPanda/gifts).



> As with the rest of this soulmates verse, the real underlying pairing in allll of these chapters will be the entire team of Hotch, Morgan, Reid, Garcia, JJ, Rossi and Prentiss. Before each chapter, though, I'll briefly mention warnings and pairs/multiples actively shown in that particular chapter. 
> 
> So, for this one we have-
> 
> Hotch/Rossi
> 
> Warnings- angst, divorce, mentions of Hotch/Haley, reference to contemplated infidelity though none actually occurred, alcohol

Technically, a doorbell at midnight doesn’t echo any more intensely than it would at noon.  Spencer would argue that, he knows, and he’d be right, scientifically.  Rossi would argue back that with human nature added to the calculation, perception is a factor that can’t be denied.  The sound echoes louder because of the still quiet of night, because of the innate fear of sudden noises after dark.  Because, essentially, the one hearing it has been conditioned that it should be. 

He’d tell Reid all of that, and he’d take it in, have his comeback or concession ready in seconds.  If he tried, Rossi could probably figure out which it’d be, but that isn’t really the pressing issue.  It’s a distraction, helpful for the walk from his room down to the door, a distance that gives him far too long to think about the time of night and the odds that the news is good. 

If they had a case, Hotch or JJ would have called.  The remaining options are universally bad—someone’s hurt, or worse.  Best case, Garcia’s had a bad night at her counseling group or Spencer’s NA meeting just wasn’t enough.  The amount of things _his_ mind could supply for ‘worst case’ could fill pages and pages; he refuses to let his mind settle on them.  They take a second from him without his consent, a flurry of images and fear that he quells with a breath before he pulls open the door.

On the threshold, his oldest soulmate leans against the doorframe.  He looks haggard and hunted, worse than Dave’s seen him in years though he knows right away none of the others are in danger.  If they were, he’d be in control.  Instead, there’s restlessness and fear in him, all the way from his eyes to the open buttons of his shirt, the missing tie. 

He’s about to step back to let him in when the corner of Hotch’s mouth turns up into something that isn’t quite a smile.  “I know it’s late, but I could use a drink.”

The admission fills in a few more pieces to this mystery for him, not that he exactly needed their help.  If a drink were all he wanted, he could’ve had it at his apartment.  Either he wants to talk or he craves company or he fears his own bottle in an empty apartment.  It’s on that last option that Rossi would place his money—not that his suspicions have ever been outright confirmed, not that profiling each other isn’t discouraged.  It’s plenty discouraged and fought over and protected against but still it happens, will always happen because when you do what they do, it becomes a part of you, inextricable. 

He knows there is abuse in Aaron’s past, though the extent remains blank.  He knows it came at the hands of his father, knows that Aaron first likely came to crave control because it was taken from him.  He knows that while he enjoys his whiskey on occasion, on others he’s turned it down, nudged glasses away with the careful touch of a man easing away a stubborn snake. 

He isn’t certain, no, but the pieces almost knit themselves.  Those who fear their parents demons but choose to risk them often set rules—no drinking when they’re angry, or alone, or worried.  Aaron’s rules don’t follow a set pattern Rossi can find, but he believes with all his heart there _are_ rules present; he just can’t quite place them. 

Not that it matters, not when the important thing is helping Hotch keep to them.  He smiles, steps back to open the door wide.  “You came to the right place; bar’s always open.  Come on.”

He does, though almost as soon as he crosses the threshold his steps turn hesitant.  “I know I shouldn’t have come tonight; after what you just went through in Indiana—“

“I can rest easier than I have in twenty years, but whether that had happened or not, the fact that you’re always welcome in this house wouldn’t have changed.”  Not then, and not ever.  Hotch could show up at his door at four AM and still get the same welcome, though it’d likely be a hell of a lot less articulate.  He lets his hand rest a moment on Hotch’s shoulder, his squeeze light and leading before he heads off toward the kitchen.

The footsteps that follow him still fall with too much trepidation.  “Maybe not, but I should have been with you.” 

“Is that what this is about, your inability to be two places at once?” 

“Not exactly, no, but I—“

“Well that’s good; I thought for a minute you were about to make it sound like I’m not well aware you’d have been on that plane with them if you’d been at the office when they left.”  He cuts his eyes at Hotch while he pours, watches the way he shifts as he settles down onto the stool.  He won’t say it, but the thought _did_ cross his mind; they both know it.  If he looked less lost, Rossi might be offended.  Instead, he tilts the bottle again, splashes a little extra black label into Hotch’s glass.  He slides it over carefully, nudges the back of his hand with cool glass to pull his attention away from whatever internal battle has him so entranced.  “Aaron.  Here.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Anytime.” 

He drinks too much too quick, only settles the glass back onto the counter to catch his breath.  Rossi sips his, and waits. 

He gets nothing, not until after Hotch has taken another long draught, topped off his own glass while he still had a little left.  David isn’t really the kind to worry, but at the back of his mind his nerves ratchet up just a little higher. 

“I put Spencer in danger, at the prison.”  His voice is absolutely flat, deliberately so.  If he meant to talk about this, David wouldn’t put it past him to have practiced in the car, said it until he could without his voice breaking.  It’s the type of the thing it’d break over; Rossi knows that much for fact. 

Because he trusts Hotch, and because he’s spoken to Spencer, his heart doesn’t race.  Instead, he sits, nods as he takes a careful drink.  By the end of this, one of them needs to be sober and it clearly won’t be Aaron.  “How so?” 

“Hardwick, I provoked him, I—“  He shakes his head, tips his glass back so far the burn is actually enough to make him wince.  It’s subtle, but Aaron has always said volumes with his subtleties.  “He meant to get us alone; he’d decided killing two federal agents would earn him a stay of execution.” 

“Well, he wouldn’t have been wrong.” 

“The minute he said it I was ready to take him.  More than ready.”

“Hotch, he threatened Reid; any of us—“

“No, it wasn’t that.  It wasn’t so noble, if it was…”  If it was, maybe they wouldn’t be having this conversation.  The silence hangs, maybe until he’s sure Rossi understands, maybe to give himself time to think.  Hotch breathes heavy, like there’s weight on his shoulders, his chest, pulling in against his ribs.  “I wanted to take him out.  I knew I could, and I wanted the chance.”

“I’ve seen you fight.  Equally unarmed, you could take Hardwick; I don’t doubt it.  Guy’s a monster; what he did to those women—“

“You don’t understand, Dave, it wasn’t about the women, it…I mean it _was_ , and it was about Reid, but then it wasn’t.  It might have started there but when I faced him, it wasn’t about reason or justice, it—“

“You just wanted to tear him apart.”  It’s barely above a whisper, and still Hotch flinches, fails to hide it in the swing of his glass to his lips.  He drains it, and though Rossi almost catches his wrist when he reaches for the bottle, he changes his mind and takes the bottle instead.  Before Hotch can protest, he pours, more careful with this dose than he was the first. 

“I could’ve gotten us both killed.”

“Or, you could’ve rid of the world of Chester Hardwick a few days early.  No one would have blamed you for it; he was the instigator.”

“Maybe not.  But Reid ended it without any blood drawn, and I wouldn’t have.  What does that say?” 

“That he played to his strengths—“

“And I played to mine?”

“ _And_ he stepped up to take care of a teammate when they weren’t in the best frame of mind, just like you’d have been the first to tell him to do if it was anyone else.  He sensed you were vulnerable, and he stepped up.  If you’re gonna dwell on this, use it as a reminder why you should be proud of him.  Nothing else matters.” 

“I didn’t want him to stop me and it doesn’t _matter_?” 

The noise that leaves his throat isn’t quite a denial, ambiguous, like the way he tilts his hand over the counter.  “If it matters, still doesn’t mean it means what _you_ think it does.”

“And what do I think it means?” 

Their eyes meet, and Rossi takes a second to let the contact settle.  There’s an intensity to Aaron’s gaze he’s never quite adjusted to; he likes that.  Like this, they read each other like scrawling script; most of the time, he likes that even better.  This question isn’t one he wants to answer out loud, and he doesn’t have to.  They both know the darkness Aaron sees in himself; he sees no point in articulating it. 

He waits until he sees Hotch acknowledge that much before he tries again. 

“You wanna know what I think?”

“I always do.”  He says it at a whisper.  If he were profiling, Rossi’d point out the contradiction, how afraid he seemed of the answer.  (But he isn’t, he shouldn’t be, so he brushes it away.) 

“Under the right conditions, you’re about as dangerous as you think you are, but here’s the catch—put any one of us in the right circumstances, we’d be dangerous too.”

“Dave—“

“You forget, I’ve seen you lose that temper of yours and you know, it didn’t scare me.  Still doesn’t.  You know why?  Because I’ve never seen you lose control on anyone who didn’t in some way provoke it or deserve it.  You reach your point and you take it out on them, never on us.  You never could; it isn’t who you are.  You can trust me; I’ve known you long enough to know.”   

“I don’t know.” 

“I do.” 

Hotch thumbs at the rim of his glass, gestures helplessly before he drinks again.  “Say you’re right, say I only ever lose it on an unsub, if that loss of focus puts my team in danger—“

“Then you prove you’re capable of error, like any of us.  No, you know what, I’d go further than that.”  Rossi pushes his own glass aside, shoves the bottle out of the way along with it so he can tap marble right next Hotch’s hands, pulling his attention.  “If you didn’t bottle it all up so hard, you’d have better control when it slips out.  You know I’m right.  You show your team that struggle as it happens rather than just trying to hide the moment you lose it?  _That’s_ how you set a good example, and I guarantee you, the more of yourself you let them see, the more they’ll give you, in the field and out of it.” 

He’s quiet so long, Rossi can only hope he’s actually considering it.  “What are you suggesting?”

It’s hard, so hard not to hope he’ll follow through.  “You need a fight, take one, but set the parameters, give yourself an outlet.  Hell, ask Morgan to spar with you; he won’t go easy.”  He knew it, not so much from experience as observation.  He must have pinned Reid a dozen times before the poor kid managed to twist away just once.  Granted, Morgan’s motivations then had been far different—teach Reid to get away from an unsub.  Letting Hotch burn off some steam, that’d take a different approach. 

“He’d worry.”

“Keep going like this and see if he doesn’t.  I’d suggest Emily, but you’d have to be willing to hit her and I know you won’t.” 

“And you?” 

It takes a second for his mind to catch up, a breath or two before he laughs.  “Come on, Hotch; I haven’t been in shape to take you on in years.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.  Besides, you’re right; you know I won’t let them—They need to know they can always come to me; if I’m not completely stable in their eyes, I’m not as safe.  Whatever I might gain from it personally or otherwise, that’s a risk I can’t take.”

 _For now_.  Rossi added it with a sigh instead of words, took a minute to finish the last of his scotch.  “We’ll see.  It’d be a quick fight.”

“I was under the impression it was ‘once a marine, always a marine’.”  The crook at the corner of his mouth isn’t a smile, but it’s better than Rossi expected. 

“In terms of respect, sure.  Whether or not I could pass the same fitness test I could when I was twenty, I don’t want to know.” 

Hotch drains his glass, and though he’d hate to admit it Rossi’s relieved when he gets up and goes to the window rather than pouring again.  Hotch leans into it, his reflection cast back in perfect mirror with the pitch black of woods at night pressing in around the house.  He likes the distance, usually, but sometimes he can see why there’s something about impenetrable darkness that makes Reid  uneasy.  He’s not sure what Hotch sees.  Hardwick, maybe, or just the dark circles under his own eyes.  Thrown into stark relief against the night, he looks far too pale. 

Rossi goes to him, careful as he lays a hand almost too lightly against his shoulder.  “Hey.  You want to tell me what this is really about?  Because I believe you wanted to take him out; what I _don’t_ believe is that there wasn’t a reason.”  Above all others, _they_ know—there’s always a reason, always something even if it’s no more than a handful of words said or not said, or one too many lit cigarettes stubbed out on thousand dollar shoes.  In writing, they call that sort of event an inciting incident, an act that begins the line of plot to follow.  Inciting incident or stressor or source or breaking point, there’s a thousand different words, phrases that vary in meaning and intent but in so many ways all add up to the same thing. 

For a second, Hotch looks like he’s about to answer.  He opens his mouth, hesitates, licks his lips as if he’s testing the words he didn’t say.  Catching the dart of his tongue coils something tighter in Rossi’s chest, enough that he forces himself to look away.  Largely, he’s gotten good at not watching too closely, but there are moments he just can’t help.  It’s late, and they’re both less guarded here than they usually are, and still he stops himself before he looks too long, sure that if he looks up—

He doesn’t get that second to collect his thoughts, to mentally pull himself back, because looking up it’s not the dark of world outside the window he sees but Hotch’s eyes, fixed on him, and if he thought Aaron could hold his gaze before, it’s _nothing_ to how _this_ burns.  There’s intent there, he knows there is, even as he tells himself it’s not possible, it’s not and yet…

Spencer would point out that it’s always been possible, always—it’s just never been _probable_.  Lately, the reasons for it not to be probable are decreasing, and he should think about that, he _will_ think about that, but Hotch’s eyes have him pinned and if he could catch his breath, he might be able to ask any of the dozen questions he probably needs to. 

His grip on Hotch’s shoulder tightens, and he says his name like a question.  He’s not entirely sure what answer, if any , he expects, but it comes in the form of hands in the front of his shirt pulling him forward.  He goes not just willingly but eagerly, finds a grip of his own against Hotch’s collar and pushes back and then finally, finally after more years of waiting than he cares to count, he’s kissing Aaron Hotchner.

They almost did this in Oklahoma City, once.  They were both drunk that night, drowning a case that ended about as badly as it could have.  Fifteen women raped, tortured, and murdered before the unsub vanished.  They stayed on a week and half after, searching until they were called off home.  They’d been buried in the case for days, enough that Hotch missed a few phone calls.  Haley was angry and Aaron was already miserable and David wasn’t much better, never able to feel right about leaving when there could be victims still out there, suffering for his failure. 

So they got a bottle of cheap whiskey and they drank in Rossi’s hotel room and talked about the victims and the profile and the images that had kept them both from sleep.  The later that talk went the more Rossi’s memories of it got a little fuzzy, but he remembered with perfect clarity the moment Hotch had gotten up to head back to his room around 3 AM, and somehow, he’d ended up leaning on Rossi’s shoulder.  Or maybe, maybe he was leaning on Aaron’s; the details were lost, but he remembered the way he’d felt looking over at Hotch and thinking if they went to bed together, maybe they’d sleep a little better that night.  Worse, the way Hotch had looked at him, he’d known that if he followed through, leaned in and kissed him, there was at least a decent chance that right at that moment, he wouldn’t be pushed away.  God, he could imagine it—how tight Aaron would hold him, how that voice he loved so much already might sound moaning his name, if he could be good enough to him to earn it. 

He could imagine it, just as well as he could imagine the way he’d look the next day, sober and sorry and blaming himself for breaking a promise he’d made Haley before he fully understood what he was giving up. 

That night, he’d been strong enough to gently push Hotch out the door with a _goodnight, Aaron_ that physically hurt.  He went to bed, got himself off thinking about dark eyes and strong hands.  He moaned when he came, still drunk and telling himself that if he’d been a little louder, a little more obvious, it had nothing to do with the wall their rooms shared, nothing at all.  (As for his dead quiet after, he told himself, too, that he was tired, trying for sleep, not listening with all the tension of a livewire to the room behind his.  There was nothing absolutely conclusive, not to most, but he was a profiler and Hotch was private, quiet.  Even his silence was telling.) 

Kissing Hotch, he can’t help but think of that night, at least for a moment; pieces of this line up too closely with what he’d imagined then to not connect them.  Hotch tastes like whiskey, and something his mind only initially describes as _stronger_ that has to be Aaron himself; if that isn’t perfect, he doesn’t know what is.  The hands gripping at his shirt are every bit as strong as he knew they would be but there’s care in them too, deliberation, like the way Rossi can feel them flex when he brings one hand up from Hotch’s collar to cup his cheek.  Hotch’s teeth catch lightly on his lip and a sound slips from Rossi’s chest, low and startled and pleased. 

Hotch seems shaken by the sound, pauses for a breath and murmurs, “Dave.”  He sounds wrecked, full of need and affection so intense it sounds closer to disbelief.  Rossi can sympathize; it doesn’t feel real, not yet, but he doesn’t want to stop.  He doesn’t ever want to stop. 

Rossi claims his mouth again, his hand sliding down to get a better hold against Hotch’s jaw  as Hotch readily opens to him, letting him in deep.  Every touch of his tongue makes the flash heat he can feel dancing along his nerves rise higher and higher, a compulsive desire so strong he hardly realizes he’s trying to sate it until there’s a pause between kisses that lasts long enough to step him back a little.  The untucked hem of Hotch’s shirt is bunched in his hand, and though he doesn’t really remember the act of pulling it out, he’s absolutely on board with following through. 

The undershirt beneath gives him a second of trouble but then he’s past it, under it, stroking the warm skin over his ribs.  Hotch is breathing heavy against his neck, his kisses light and haphazard until Rossi’s hand slides around to press against the small of his back.  He bites down for that, his hips twitching forward far enough that there’s no denying the hard press of his cock Rossi can feel against his thigh. 

“ _Jesus_ , Aaron—“  A little rough, he tugs Hotch’s mouth back to his, kisses him hard and fast.  There’s a faint sting to the patch of skin on his neck still damp from Aaron’s mouth  and at his age he really should be aware of all the kinks he possesses but _damn_ he wasn’t really prepared for the way that’d make him feel.  It’s a good pain, far overridden by pleasure, and he lets it drive him.  He grinds forward, a slow and deliberate counterpoint to their near frantic kiss. 

Catching his breath, he’s distracted by Hotch’s hand at his collar.  It’s harder to manage with the t-shirt he’d thrown on before bed than it would be with anything he’d wear to work(and God, _there’s_ a thought he didn’t need), but Hotch catches it and pulls it aside far enough to expose a wider patch of skin.  He licks his lips, a tell that takes Rossi apart almost more effectively than the flick of Aaron’s eyes up to his. 

His thumb taps against Rossi’s collarbone.  “You want it here?” 

On a fairly regular basis, he’s reminded why he always considered Aaron his greatest training success as a profiler, not that he can take all the credit.  There’s a natural talent for it in him that can’t be replicated and _that_ , for Rossi that’s another turn on in itself.  Hotch, he knows, is well aware—he could’ve just done it, dragged Dave forward and marked him; he sure as hell wouldn’t have protested.  Like this, there’s just the slightest added layer, a reminder of every way Aaron can break him down to components he’d only ever use for him and never against him. 

It’s a terrifying and exhilarating thing to be so well known, so well loved. 

He nods once, and Aaron dips his head and bites down with such fervor Rossi can only bury his fingers in his hair and hold on.  It’s incredible, sharp pain and sharper pleasure from the swipe of his tongue across such sensitive skin.  The thought drifts through his mind of just how that mouth would feel on his cock and he moans hungrily, feels his nails dig into skin at the nape of Hotch’s neck.  The feel of Hotch’s breath against damp skin when he finishes is dizzying, though it’s the kiss he presses to the mark he just made that leads Rossi to reach for his hand.  The need is instinctive; Reid can and has told him of science that proves it, data on increased arousal and dozens of other variables, not that he really cares.  All he knows is that he wants to feel Aaron’s hand in his, wants to press it against the window and see that bright line of orange on his wrist glowing brighter than he’d have ever seen it before. 

He almost makes it that far, but he threads his fingers through Hotch’s first, and his mind catches on a detail he can’t _believe_ he didn’t notice the minute he came in the door.  All he can feel is Aaron’s skin against his; nothing between.  No metal, no _ring_. 

The realization slows him enough that he almost lets go.  He _does_ let their hands sink, dropping down and out of sight instead of pressing to the window.  He can read Hotch’s quick understanding in the way he sighs, the way his fingers squeeze against Rossi’s as his head tilts back hard against the window.  “Dave—“

“You signed the divorce papers.”  God, it’s so simple; why didn’t he see it before?  As hard as he’s been stalling Rossi was sure the whole process would carry on a few more months at least; hell, he’s wondered if Hotch might even be able to turn things around.  He’s certainly tried. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“I can see that.” 

“I don’t want to stop, either.”  His gaze is piercing.  If Rossi didn’t him know half so well, he probably wouldn’t be able to see the pain in it.  Still, what he says is true, to a certain extent—he doesn’t want to stop, but that doesn’t mean they _shouldn’t_ . 

“No, because—”  Rossi leans heavily on his free hand against the glass, pushes back enough to disengage just a little.  It’s easier to think that way, without Hotch’s body pressed so enticingly against him.  “—you don’t want to think.  Not quite the same thing.”

“You think I haven’t wanted—“

“Oh no, I think you’ve wanted this every bit as long as I have, which is exactly why I know I’m right about this, too.  Because unless you can look me in the eye and tell me this has _nothing_ to do with what happened today beyond your new availability—“  His eyes close just at the thought, not that Rossi’s the least bit surprised.  He tries to turn it into a long blink, and Rossi keeps going.  “—then this is bad idea right now, and you know it.  Hey.”  Like he knew it would be, the guilt’s written right there the second he looks up.  “You know it.  We do this right now, it’ll be about...” 

 _Haley_.  It’ll be about her, and not him, not _them_.  There’s a little bit of pain that comes with that thought, though Rossi pushes it away.  Now isn’t the time for his own jealousy.  He convinces himself his reluctance to say her name is only to save Aaron’s feelings, and he pushes on, vague but solid in his conviction. 

“It won’t be for the right reasons.  You know that, as well as I do.  Maybe better.” 

Between his silence and the way he lets go of Rossi’s hand in favor of reaching up to smooth out the collar of his shirt just over the mark it hides, he says everything.  There’s something about him then that looks dangerously fragile, so close to a precarious breaking point that Rossi waits until they’re both breathing a little easier, until Hotch beings to speak. 

“You know I—“

“I know.”

“How?  You didn’t even let me finish.”  His smile looks almost wholly natural.  Rossi quells the urge to kiss it. 

“Doesn’t matter; I know.”  He knows, because however much pain he’s in, and God knows that’s there, he still wouldn’t have kissed Rossi the way he had if he didn’t want this.  Some things can’t be faked; even if they could, Hotch isn’t the type.  He’s sincere and intense and loyal and soon, when the loss of his marriage isn’t quite so fresh and he’s a little more sober, Rossi’ll be experiencing all of that focus firsthand. 

He can wait.  He’s already waited years, after all; a little longer won’t kill him. 

Rossi rakes his fingers through Hotch’s hair, lets his hand rest a moment at the base of his neck before he pulls away completely.  It isn’t easy, but once he’s moving it’s easier to stay that way, to step back to the counter and drag a chair out just a little farther in invitation.  “Come on.  Sit down, have another.” 

“I can’t talk about it yet.  I know I should but—“

“Who said we were gonna talk about it?”  They should, and they will, but for now it’s enough that Hotch has let him see him like this, lost and disjointed.  It’s more than enough.  Rossi smiles for him, goes to the cabinet and pulls out a pan.  “You’re going to drink, and I’m going to cook because I’m willing to bet you haven’t eaten since you were with Reid.”  He has to be starving, and he needs something on his stomach other than whiskey. 

Hotch sits and pours, and his theory is confirmed.  “What am I having?”

“Whatever I can put together; late night version of the kitchen doesn’t take requests.”  Even weary, Aaron’s laugh is music.  Just like it always has, being the one who brought it on feels like a victory.    

He fries bacon and makes omlettes for the both of them, and they talk about Spencer at the prison and Jack’s bike riding and the next time the team might be able to get a few days off, and it’s not until they’ve finished and he’s washing dishes with Hotch right beside him that it feels the right moment to say the one thing about this mess he’s sure he wants to say. 

“I’m sorry, Aaron.  No matter what I wanted for myself, I never wanted you to have to go through this.” 

For a second Hotch freezes and Rossi starts to wish he’d kept his damn mouth shut, but then he reaches over and tugs the wet plate out of Rossi’s hands. 

“Sometimes I think I should have known better to begin with, but then I think…”

“You wouldn’t have Jack, and he’s worth it.”  Rossi takes the last plate and washes slowly, his eyes on his hands.  “Loving her was worth it too you know.”  Before Hotch can give that one too much thought, Rossi nudges his shoulder.  “And hey, if we’re talkin’ about who should know better?  I’ve been married three times, Hotch.  You’d think I’d learn.” 

“Well, you are stubborn.”

“Oh you’re one to talk.”  Rossi glances at the windows, still black though he knows it won’t be long now before the sky beyond the treeline starts to fade blue.  It’s been too long since they spent a night like this off the road, no crowded police station, no unsub.  “I give it five hours before JJ calls us in.”

“Generous estimate.”

“What can I say; I’m an optimist.” 

They stay up another hour, and though Hotch could probably drive himself home by then, Rossi doesn’t want to let him.  The temptation to take Hotch to bed with him is so strong it nearly overwhelms him, but he can’t let it, so he compromises, punctuates his _goodnight, Aaron_ with a kiss just outside the door of a guest room downstairs. 

Those early years they worked BAU together he must have wanted to do exactly that a thousand times.  For a second he almost says so, but Hotch smiles, presses his palm over the bruise on David’s collar as he says his own goodnight, and it’s clear he knows. 


End file.
